Art of War
by Mangudai
Summary: September 2000. Its been five years since Voldemort returned, and war has begun. Harry Potter who should be twenty by now went missing three years ago. A mighty horde lies camped on an English beach, about to unleash its fury upon the nation.
1. The Scarred Quartet

_Disclaimer: I own nothing except a few characters along the way. JK owns all else. _

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_Warfare is the Way of deception. _

_Therefore, if able, appear unable, _

_if active, appear not active, _

_if near, appear far, _

_if far, appear near._

_- Sun Tzu "The Art of War"_

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**Some Bad News**

It was several hours past midnight. The night would have been a starry one, were it not for the unseasonal mist that obscured any skyward gazer's vision. The implied meaning of this mist had been made very clear to the magical population and most of the witches and wizards of London had drifted into an uneasy sleep after spending several hours worrying. Not everyone was asleep however, for even at this unearthly hour a group of scarred men sat wide awake around an oak table in a room in the heart of London.

It wasn't a very big room, and most of its area was occupied by the brown oak table mentioned above. The room was rectangular in shape, with a marble floor and three of the walls were plastered with maps and diagrams depicting battle tactics. The fourth wall was blank, clearly a screen on which images were to be projected. The room was silent, except for the breathing of the men around the oak table, as they sat reading reports placed in front of them.

At its head sat Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister for Magic. The twenty something years he had spent as an Auror had given rise to a stealthy and cautious personality. His yellow eyes darted from side to side behind his wire rimmed spectacles as he read the report, and he ran a battle-scarred hand through his tawny hair. After spending nearly a lifetime hunting Dark wizards, he prided himself on being an expert at their psychology. Yet even he seemed clueless these days. The men who sat before him were not very happy about this. Neither were they happy about being summoned for an emergency meeting at this hour..

To the Minister's right sat his long time colleague and friend, Gawain Robards, who was the new Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (following Amelia Bones' grizzly death). He was a stocky, well built man with a long scar that ran down his face from forehead to chin and bisected it into two halves which were in turn traversed by lighter scars seeming to form a gigantic facial spider web. His long black hair was drawn back into a pony tail, making the scars on his face and neck more prominent, but then people said he was unspeakably proud of his scars. His bulging muscles and loose robes might have given him a casual appearance, but no-one at the table was fooled. The tag "Master Strategist" had followed Gawain Robards' name for the last ten years of his life and not without reason. As far as organizing skirmish tactics was concerned, he was almost unparalleled. Throughout Rufus Scrimgeour's career they had fought together, and had brought the second largest number of Dark wizards to justice ever.

First place was reserved for the man who sat opposite Robards. Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody, though he was no longer with the Ministry had been called upon to share his "wealth of experience in these troubled times". The others couldn't help but feel uneasy as his electric-blue magical eye darted about erratically while his normal eye read the reports. Though none of them ever said it aloud, they knew that Mad-Eye Moody was without doubt one of the greatest Aurors of all times. He had possessed such apt combat skills that he had always managed to curse dark wizards into submission without killing them, an ability none of the Aurors of his time had possessed (as far as they were concerned it was always kill or be killed). The Minister had requested Alastor to share his "wealth of experience" when a better phrase would have been "ocean of experience".

To Minister Scrimgeour's left sat his predecessor. Cornelius Oswald Fudge had been forced out of office following his inability to stop Voldemort's attacks and his entire year of inaction. The blow he had been dealt with had not stopped him looking as full of himself as before, and the lime green bowler hat was again to be seen flitting about the premises of the Ministry. It had been Rufus Scrimgeour who insisted on retaining the ex-Minister in advisory capacity, so that damage assessment and control would be quicker. Some thought that Scrimgeour was fond of his ex-boss, which was miles away from the truth. Simply put, Scrimgeour detested Fudge, but needed him.

The atmosphere in the room was highly charged as Rufus's hand ran through his tawny hair and he groaned inwardly. He was seated with three men who had fixed views on what should be the Ministry's next course of action, and would not stand down from their beliefs. It didn't help that they hated the way he was handling the situation. Sparks would rise, as Rufus knew full well and it was for this reason he had been so desperate to make sure this meeting was hidden from the press. The men, who had now finished reading the reports, were engaged in a continuing silence that was broken when Rufus cleared his throat.

"Firstly, I would like to thank everyone for coming. You have been called at this time so that we can avoid being hounded by the press reporters. They will be here by sunrise, and I intend for this to be over by then"

His voice was harsh and raspy. Though it was uncharacteristic, none of the men at the table were surprised. The pressure of the Minister's job was bound to wrought changes in the best of men. The Minister shook his tawny, grey-streaked head as though to orient himself, looking a lot like the "Limping Lion" the Daily Prophet had painted him out to be.

He stood up, and walked to the stretch of blank wall, then began pacing back and forth, failing to hide his limp. He clenched his fist, wondering where to begin. His mind was not functioning clearly after the number of hours he had spent without sleep.

"I'll get straight to the point. A few hours ago, there were explosions in two well frequented areas. Diagon Alley was one. Wizards from Damage Assessment are at the site searching for survivors through the rubble. King's Cross was another. A train was derailed. Muggles are among casualties. You can guess who was behind the blasts." He paused and tried to look calm - which was turning out to be very difficult. He decided to hide the cocktail of expressions on his face by going back to his chair (and bowing his face down)

"We have no clue where he is. No clue where his biggest cronies are. No clue where any of them are"

The Minister shot a glance at each of the men in turn. They all refused to meet his eyes, which irritated him. Couldn't they be a little more helpful?

"I have called you here tonight, so we can think of some way to move forward - some course of action -"

Rufus looked around at the three men again, determined not to continue unless he received some encouragement. None was forthcoming however. They stared stubbornly in opposite directions to each other, looking preoccupied. Rufus bit back a barrage of abuses. He had to be dignified.

"Let's start with you Gawain. You're in command of Law Enforcement. What do you think we should do?"

Gawain Robards shook himself as Rufus had done earlier, causing his ponytail to sway behind him like a pendulum. He cleared his throat, and turned to meet Rufus's eyes. His face, which normally lit up with enthusiasm whenever the prospect of battle was imminent seemed extinguished of all fervor. His battle scars gleamed impressively in the dim light of the room.

"Clearly, in the current circumstances we need an extremely large force if we are to combat You Know Who. Off the top of my head, I'd say we have about four thousand Aurors in the service, but by no account is that going to be enough. You Know Who is recruiting, and intelligence reports have indicated towards a mass recruitment of some kind. We need numbers, Scrimgeour. I say we put every single Ministry employee through an Advanced Defense crash-course, and throw them out into the field. It sounds ruthless, but its the only way we can produce a force that's large enough-"

"If I may say so, that just is not practical" said Fudge (who seemed to have shaken himself out of his reverie as well), his fingers intertwined above his bowler hat, and his chin resting on it. "No wizard or witch should be forced to fight this Dark menace against their will -"

Robards turned to look at Fudge, deep disgust in his eyes. Rufus could understand what he was upset about - it was very disconcerting to be lectured on practicality by a man who had spent a year playing the part of the most impractical politician the nation had ever seen.

"They wouldn't have to _'fight the Dark Menace against their will'_ if you hadn't wasted a year playing games with public opinion when you should have been preparing us for war!"

Fudge turned a beetroot red, and his eyes widened making him look like a swelling bullfrog. He glanced at Rufus, spluttering, before he glared back at Robards. "For Merlin's sake - there was no evidence -"

"You could have taken a _little_ time to get off your fat bottom and investigate those claims to see if there was a tiny shred of truth! But no - you sent us after Black when we should have been hunting You Know Who - with your puffed-up _idiot_ of an undersecretary and -" Robards had strayed into the realms of profanity. Conflict was now unavoidable.

Predictably, Fudge was on his feet. He slapped his bowler hat uselessly as he cried "I will not be spoken to in that fashion!"

Robards had risen to his feet as well, and he was cracking his knuckles "Oh really _Mister_ _Advisor_? What can you possibly -"

A fist collided with the oak table producing a loud _thump_. Fudge and Robards, their faces inches from each other, paused and stared at Rufus, who hammered the table again. Their momentary surprise vanished and they both glared at the Minister.

"Please practice a little self-restraint, gentlemen. Let's not go into Cornelius's actions during his time in office. What's past is past."

Desperate to move on before the heat got any worse Rufus glanced at the reports that lay before him. He turned to Robards.

"I see from reports that you've posted Aurors in every major dwelling in the country - and no one has reported anything suspicious?"

"Nothing that you'd associate with You Know Who" said Robards distractedly, still glaring in Fudge's direction. "No disappearances, deaths and the like. And mind you, I have every single Auror posted somewhere or the other. Not a single one resting on his bottom, unlike some people-"

"Right then" interrupted Rufus, as Fudge's face changed colour dangerously. "No one has sent a positive report. And they're all accounted for?" He raised an eyebrow threateningly, hoping Robards would take a message and lay off Fudge.

'They've been ordered to call into base four times each day. To this point no one has missed a call. Everything's okay, unless someone is under the Imperius curse...but they've been trained to combat it and I don't think-"

"I am quite confident that our Auror's are capable of combating the Imperius curse" said Rufus, seeing Fudge open his mouth, sensing another flare-up. "A considerable percentage of their training period is devoted to the very subject. You need to be on the force to understand that." He fixed Fudge with the same raised-eyebrow look, warning him to keep the meeting civil.

Once he was confident his message had been understood, he looked at Mad-Eye Moody. The mangled ex-Auror had been watching the proceedings with undisguised amusement. He was now shaking his head (what was with the shaking - why was everyone doing it?) silently laughing. Rufus felt intense irritation rise inside him. The man had been called as a show of respect on the part of the Ministry. And now he was laughing at them. As though he was above them all. Who did he think he was?

"What do _you_ suggest I do Moody?" he said, and then cursed himself, for as much as he had tried he had been unable to keep his irritation out of his voice.

"Ah - that same old tone" said Moody, and as though to feed Rufus's rising anger, a grin materialized on his face. "You're no different from any of your predecessors..._Minister_"

Rufus narrowed his eyes as he sensed a hint of challenge in Moody's voice. "And what is that supposed to mean?" He braced himself for a fight.

"Oh - you may be more capable than Fudge -" there was a splutter and Fudge got to his feet - Moody ignored him "- and you certainly _look_ the part of Minister (what with all those impressive scars) - but look deep down and the two of you are the same scum that's always occupied the top spot..."

Rufus slowly rose to his feet as well, fists clenched. He took a deep breath, ready to tear the old Auror to pieces, but Moody beat him to the punch.

"When you came to office every little pansy went _'Hey its Rufus Scrimgeour! He's an _Auror_! He's going to save us!' _and who could blame them for that after Fudge? -" splutter "- and what did they get? I'll tell you what they got! They got a tawny headed nut who favors appearances over truth! Look at the arrest of Stan Shunpike - he was an idiot, no doubt - but an innocent idiot. And what about our dear Minister trying to turn Potter into the Ministry's poster boy? And his squabbling with Dumbledore, who was probably our best chance against You-Know-Who? I'm surprised no one here feels as sick as I do..." Not to be outdone, the mangled old man was on his feet as well.

Rufus was speechless. He tried to say something, but so many cutting retorts were buzzing through his mind that the words just wouldn't come out. The language censor in his brain that normally filtered out phrases that were inappropriate for a Minister seemed to have broken down. Everything finally exploded in a hiss of suppressed fury.

"I - was - trying - to raise public morale. And as for Dumbledore -" his teeth were grinding against each other as he searched for words resisting the temptation to circumvent the language censor. And all the while glaring at Moody.

There was a loud thump as another fist hit the oak table. The three standing men turned and glared at Gawain Robards, who was still seated. Despite the seriousness of the occasion, he couldn't help but grin boyishly.

"Gentlemen - Self restraint. Remember?"

Rufus spat and sat down, cursing himself again for loosing his cool. Moody's face was re-possessed of that irritating amusement as he took his seat. Fudge stood, spluttering for another moment before he realized he was at a supreme loss for words and sat down.

"You asked me for a suggestion? Here's what I say. Draw back the Aurors from wherever you have them posted and station them all at London -"

"Then how do you expect us to find You-Know-Who?" snapped Rufus, not looking at the man.

"You just don't get it do you? You're talking about the darkest wizard ever. If he wants to stay hidden there's no way your sissy little upstart Aurors are going to locate him. And I believe he has good reason to stay hidden...Scrimgeour and Robards, do you remember the most common storming tactic we used to use, back when we were in middle of the action? (before you became such couch-potatoes?)"

"Sure" said Robards at once, ignoring Moody the last part of the question. "We would rally secretly at a point very close to the location we knew was in Death Eater possession, and when we were in sufficient numbers (and still hidden) we would storm them together, taking them by surprise. We would attempt to eliminate the leader, after which his juniors would flee, surrender or die. It was a tactic that was only effective when there was place to hide around the location. It had the advantage that battle lasted a very short time and when executed correctly, casualties were minimum...The major requisite of that tactic was the element of surprise - without surprise it would be suicide to storm the enemy all together - giving them time to prepare..."

"Very good" said Moody. "And we used that _surprise_ tactic to very good effect - most of the Eaters we killed back in the old times was using that one. Getting back to the point - You Know Who's doing the exact same thing according to me. The blasts in Diagon Alley, King's Cross, the killing of Amelia Bones last year and the giant rampage - it was all a diversion. He wants you to think that he's satisfied with that. But in some remote corner of the country, he's rallying an army, bigger than anything we've ever seen before. I'm talking in terms of thousands. And when he's ready, he'll strike right here. _The element of surprise_. London will fall like dominoes, what with all the Aurors dispersed throughout Britain. And he'll take your head Scrimgeour. _Eliminate the Leader. _Once he's got control of London, he'll have the whole of Britain within a day..."

Silence followed this ominous pronouncement. The three other men seemed to have forgotten their individual differences as they stared at Moody. Then came the inevitable arguments.

"Never has there been any evidence -" said Fudge "- to show that he had political ambitions - or that he wanted control of the country -"

"Damn your evidence" said Moody. "What do you think You-Know-Who is - stupid? For Merlin's sake, he was the brightest student ever to attend Hogwarts! You think he doesn't care about controlling the country? Then you're a fool. Last time, before his downfall, he had grown so powerful that he was internationally famous. Dark wizards from all corners of the world had begun begging him to let them join his _glorious cause_. It's all down in the old Ministry files - take a look if you don't believe me. I suppose he realized the true size of the army he could muster if he allowed all those idiots to join him at that point. But then was the Harry Potter episode. And now he's back after fifteen years, during which the number of people who remember and admire him can only have grown. And I'll change my name if he's not recruiting misguided young idiots, both British and foreign into some kind of gigantic Dark army at this moment..."

"But how can he possible conceal something this enormous?" asked Rufus, in a voice that was almost pleading - quite a contrast to his state of mind a few moments earlier.

"Scrimgeour, you are talking about someone who has spent no less than twenty years studying the darkest possible methods of concealment and disguise. I've no doubt in my mind that he would have no difficulty whatsoever..."

Rufus buried his face in his hands. As much as he hated to believe it, the man was talking sense. He felt as helpless. He so much preferred being an Auror out on the field to the Minister's job. Life was much easier when you were following orders rather than issuing them.

"What the hell do we do?"

"Do what Robards said. Dissolve the Ministry. Subject all employees to crash courses, and begin fortifying London. He'll attack here first"

"What if they attack somewhere else? That is if _they_ exist?" Fudge looked deeply distressed. News of some mighty army that had been able to rally thanks to his negligence threatened to weigh heavily on his conscience.

"If I learnt anything about You-Know-Who in all the years that I fought him, he will strike here first"

"What about the rest of the country? You say we let this _Army_ ravage them as much as they want?"

"If they attack anywhere else, they'll be revealing their location and we can confront them. They'd have lost the element of surprise. It would actually work to our advantage - but trust me - You-Know -Who knows better..."

"Okay Mad-Eye" said Rufus finally, deciding to trust the most experienced Auror alive. He could listen to no more of this debate. He couldn't stand it. "I think we all see that there's some possibility you're right. Would you mind presenting your case once again, before the Wizard Council, so that we can go ahead and decide a course of action?"

"Wouldn't mind at all"

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**_Review sil-vous-plait_**


	2. The Shingle Beach

**The Shingle Beach**

It was noon – or at least the clocks said it was. The sun appeared unusually dull, as it cast its sparse rays over the long stretch of shingle beach, upon which hundreds of black cloaked figures were moving about tirelessly, erecting tents, cooking food, practicing spells and causing quite a stir of activity in general. The grey waves that lashed the shore with no real vigor gave off a funereal vibe.

_As if things weren't depressing enough_. So, thought Draco Malfoy, as he sat on a large flat-topped boulder, his blonde hair swaying in the cruel breeze, staring out at the vast expanse of sea. It had been an onerous morning for him. He had been awoken in the gigantic tent he shared with seventy other recruits (before the sun had even risen) by the detestable morning trumpets, and had hurriedly donned his black tunic, robe and hood. He had then rushed down to the Instruction Arena.

Draco and his fellow Death Troopers had arranged themselves into ten rows of ten, and then the Drill had begun. The morning's focus had been common army maneuvers. The entire unit had spent several hours practicing tactical moves like flanking against simulated opponents. The exercise had included fighting inferi, who had been so skillfully bewitched, they proved extremely dangerous opponents. The punishment for every missed curse or hex was an extremely accurate one from the instructor, who to Draco's consternation was none other than his father's dear old friend Rodolphus Lestrange.

That was what happened in the Instruction Arena, which constituted a tiny fraction of the total area of the camp. The camp was elliptical in shape and a ditch (twelve feet wide and nine feet deep) bordered the entire circuit. Pikes, magically bewitched to cause death in one thrust had been driven into the soil in the ditches. On the inner side was a ten foot high wall. Towered outposts had been constructed at regular intervals along the wall from where watchful Death Troopers monitored the surroundings.

Midway through the lengthy ditch that formed the northern border of the camp was a mighty gate that had been hewn out of stone. It was wide to facilitate marching troops and provided easy access to the road a few miles away. Draco had heard enough to know that that road was critical in the Dark Lord's plans. Facing the beach, at the opposite end of the camp, was another gate. This gate had been built out of plain wood and was less impressive. It led to a lonely stretch of the beach that projected out onto the sea and was where people were taken to be executed or tortured. Many times, Draco had seen Death Eaters dragging rebels towards that dreaded gate, and very rarely were those wretched souls to be seen again.

That morning's drill had concluded, and after an unsavory snack at the canteen tent, Draco had rushed to his favorite haunt – the boulder that overlooked the sea. With no one to talk to, his major occupation in his free time had been watching the ships that glided into the artificial dock (that the Dark Lord had made himself). He would watch the ships skimming in and smirk as hundreds of black-cloaked figures tumbled clumsily out onto the sand. Some of them would spew out their stomachs in clear view of everyone. Others would search for a more private place.

A Death Eater would go down to meet the new arrivals and would conduct them up the rock-coated beach, towards a canopied enclosure and curtly command them to make camp. They would be thrown raw meat and told to feed themselves. They would be granted an evening to recoup and next morning onwards, they would be drilled to the point of collapse. No weakness of any sort was tolerated.

Draco had acquainted himself with several of the new arrivals, and had observed that several of them were foreign. He had identified French and Spanish accents among others. They were those who had committed themselves to join the ranks of The Dark Horde, the latest of Voldemort's many conceptions. They were a diverse group. There were those who had always been fascinated by the Dark Arts. You could recognize them by the look of delight they sported as they learnt gory new curses. Then there were the outlaws – those who had been ousted from society – and were seeking to exact their revenge by whatever means possible.

Voldemort's Dark Horde was a many layered body. It's most elementary combatant, the Dark Trooper was what Draco was undergoing training to become. The Dark Trooper was the Dark Lord's answer to the Ministry Auror. He had personally devised a strict regime of training that was designed to convert men with reasonable ability into horrifyingly competent wielders of Dark Magic.

A Squadron of the Dark Horde consisted of fifty Troopers. It was under the command of a Trooper Captain, who was appointed on account of being the best performer during drills. Three such divisions were under the command of a Death Eater. The Death Eaters constituted Voldemort's intitial ring of supporters, who had found themselves in extremely powerful positions, with the sudden mass recruitment.

Draco had been dismayed, when rather than being appointed a Death Eater (as he had expected), he had been commanded to report to the Trooper barracks. Hadn't he proved that he possessed more caliber than several Death Eaters? What about the ingenious plan he had contrived to smuggle them into Hogwarts? The one that had resulted in Dumbledore's death?

However, he had soon realized though, that becoming a competent Trooper in itself would be one of the biggest challenges of his life. At school Draco had never managed to comprehensively teach his enemies a lesson. After being brought to this hellish beach, he had become a killing machine. Though he hadn't had any opportunity to test his new skills, he knew he was deadly. The deadly inferi he had blasted were enough proof.

Draco sensed movement and shifted his eyes to spot a figure striding up the beach towards him. He was tall and broad, with dark skin and lank brown hair. His eyeballs were colorless, giving him a spectral appearance that could shook the bravest. He would have looked like a dark, robed ghost were it not for the elegant network of tattoos that spiraled up his exposed arms. His name was Jacques. Draco knew very well that he had a violent history. He had been one of the most dreaded bank robbers of mainland Europe and had a record of several kills. He was a worthy addition to the Horde, or at least that was what Draco's instructor had said the day he had arrived.

His colorless eyes caught Draco's and he grinned demonically, revealing brown, even set teeth. A maniacal light glowed on his face, in spite of which he held himself with great composure. He raised his right arm in a gesture of peace as his eyes left Draco and scanned the beach.

'Malfoy' he said, waving his raised hand, his burnt fingers glinting in the sun. "Unit has been ordered to assemble in Instruction Arena"

Draco swore, realizing that he would be losing the precious free time he had. He slid off the boulder and straightened out to face the European killer. 'What the hell do they want?'

'I don't know' he responded, a mild smirk on his ghostly face. 'Better get moving though'

Draco dusted the sand off his black attire as beads of sweat soaked his collar line. Jacques had started off at a brisk pace towards the Arena some five hundred inland and Draco hurried to catch up with him.

'I've been hearing things about you Malfoy' said Jacques as Draco stepped into pace beside him, examining his tattoos. 'People say you killed some big shot wizard – Dumbles or something…..'

'Dumbledore' said Draco, quite flattered that word had spread around so quick. 'And I did kill the old bastard'

Jacques raised a thin eyebrow and nodded his head, impressed. His colorless eyes turned towards the sea, which was dotted with the evening shadows of incoming ships.

'I'm a little sick of the waiting, you know. I just wish the Dark Lord would give the order to invade. Can't wait to experiment with those curses we do in drill. Should be fun….'

He looked down at his tapering fingers and his mouth curled in anticipation.

'Where exactly is this place?'

'No clue myself' said Draco, feeling very frustrated at the fact. 'My mother and aunt are Death Eaters. I've tried finding out – but their lips are sealed – Damn them….' He caught his breath, waiting for Jacques to ask about his father, not sure what he was going to say – but Jacques's attention was elsewhere. Draco followed his gaze and realized that they had reached the Instruction Arena. Three Trooper Units including theirs were crowded around an elevated stage on which their instructor and Death Eater Rodolphus Lestrange stood, his black robes flying behind him grandly. The shining Dark Mark emblazoned on his chest's left side signified his position as a Death Eater. As they approached, he stuck his wand to his throat.

'Troopers, the time has come' he proclaimed. 'For several months now, you have been training hard and I have been witness to your progress. The Dark Lord is satisfied with the change his regime has wrought in you and has decreed that it is time to strike.' Lestrange's eyes gleamed with passion. This was clearly what he had been waiting for, for months.

'I know you have all exhibited exemplary discipline these past few months. You have worked diligently, and finally I can call you competent servants of the Dark Horde. Your performance in today morning's drill was very illuminating. It is now clear that Ministry forces will be no match for you…..'

'A week from now, we will move out. It is a matter of great honor that your units have been selected by the Dark Lord to be a part of the initial storming force that will pave the way for the rest of our invasion. As the remaining Troopers…..' he gestured towards the ships at sea '…..are being trained, it will be our task to secure a safe route for our forces to follow when the time is ripe…… we move in a week.'

He hopped off the stage, and the dust he kicked into the air triggered coughing fits in a few Troopers. Lestrange shook his head in disgust and set off at a brisk pace towards the main camp. As soon as he was sufficiently far off, babble of talk broke out among the Troopers.

'Finally' hissed Jacques, and he proceeded to shove several Troopers aside as he looked for a comfortable place to sit. He located a sand coated rock and marched towards it, kicking shins, bellies – anything as he made his way. 'After all these months, at last we can do some killing!'

'Damn right' said Draco, following Jacques (and being spared the necessity to clear a path) to the rock that protruded out of the sand. He felt fear along with the excitement. Despite all his training, there remained a minute possibility that……after all war always took casualties whichever side won….. 'We're going to do a lot of killing…..'

There was a sudden commotion as some Troopers spotted Lestrange heading back towards the gathering. He was jogging now, and he looked annoyed. His shoulder length hair sailed behind him along with his robes. Draco noticed that he carried a tiny scroll of parchment as he hopped onto the stage. He spat into the crowd, as he extracted his wand, and after clearing his throat said,

'Yes and – I forgot – you must be wondering who your Trooper captains are. Well Unit One will be commanded by Aetius Rompard, Unit Two by Jacques Asnani, and Unit Three by Skadi Thoradin. Captains are required to report to my tent tomorrow for further briefing…..you will in turn brief your units…..'

A cry of triumph pierced the air, assaulting Draco's ears and causing them to ache. He turned to see Jacques with his arms raised, hooting as his colorless eyes rolled in triumph. The mob was collectively stunned by this sudden outburst, but only for a moment, then bodies began rushing towards Jacques to congratulate him. Draco struggled to battle an urge to bellow out curses. He had had his eyes set on becoming Trooper Captain. He could not believe he had been shunned in favor of that common criminal.


End file.
